In the Name of Spot Conlon
by SPRACE's Illegitimate Child
Summary: And he told himself: Never again would he cry. Never again would he love. And never again would he show fear. He needed nothing. He needed no one. SPRACE, Spot-centric. 1892-1899
1. Never Again

**Author's Note**: Yeah, yeah, I know...I really should be working on _A Thin Line Between Love and Hate, _but I was in the process of working on it (hey I've written 13 additional pages, alright?) and I suddenly got an idea for a drabble. And somehow...it turned into this...

It has now been re-vamped. No story changes. Just a few typos and odd sentences I had to fix.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own these boys, I just make them do whatever I want...Legally. Disney owns them!

**Warnings:** Eventual SPRACE SLASH, and mild language later. Um...you _might _cry...but probably not.

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_1892_

Spot Conlon's life sucked. At least, most of it did. He'd gone a lot of his life without parents, after they had died all those years ago. There had been a fire, and Spot had been the only one to escape. Though he will never know why.

His only recollection of the night, was waking up to his lungs filling with smoke and him being unable to breathe. He hadn't been more than nine years old, and his first reaction was fear. And all he wanted was to get away. Away from the smoke, away from the heat that had suddenly overcome him. He just wanted out. He fell to the floor and crawled in the direction he knew the door was - his memory told him even though his eyes couldn't. He clamored, using his hands to find where he was. His fingers reached the doorknob and his hand burned. The heat from the other side of the door nearly seared his skin. He had two choices: Brace himself for the flames that could possibly kill him, or find another way out. He felt the sweat drip from his face and decided against braving the deadly fire. He got as low to the floor as he could - as his parents had always told him to do in case of a fire. He crawled to the window and forced it open. The air that shot in allowed him to take a deep breath for the first time. He climbed out the window of his Brooklyn home into the cold air. As he lowered himself to the ground, he could swear he heard his mother calling his name. The name he could no longer remember. He ran, and climbed a tree. And there he sat...watching his home disappear into the night - the horribly dark night that was lit only by the blazing flames that destroyed everything he had. And although he had hoped...deep down he knew. There was no way he'd ever see his parents again. And tears ran down his face, slowly landing on the ground far below him, and on the clothes that clung to his body with sweat. He fell asleep on the branch of that tree...the crackling of the flames the last sound he heard before drifting into slumber.

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In the morning when the boy woke, all that was left of his home was a black, empty, ash-filled shell of a building. There was nothing. The boy took a walk towards the structure - if it could even be called a structure anymore - but couldn't bear to enter, for the thought of what he would (or wouldn't) find inside. A slight shimmer on the ground caught his attention. He reached down to pick up a silver key from a pile of ash. He wiped it off and clutched it in his hand. He gazed up at the black nothing in front of him - the nothing that used to be everything. He allowed himself one tear. A single tear, which fell to the earth and splattered at his feet. And he told himself: Never again would he cry. Never again would he love. And never again would he show fear. He needed nothing. He needed no one.

* * *

He had no choice but to live on his own. And for a short while...he was successful. Sleeping in alleyways, or in hay bales meant for horses. It wasn't so hard. Being small, he would often gain pity from passersby who would buy him food. And when he wasn't having any luck, he was sneaky and tricky enough to steal some. A loaf of bread from a bakery - he could make it last for days, or more if he had to. Things were okay...until the day he was caught. He had picked a bad day to steal a tomato, he guessed. It was the turn of the winter, and he had begun to grow tired. Normally, he could easily outrun any copper that chased after him. That day, he was unlucky. He had swiped a tomato from a vegetable stand and had begun to take off. He could hear the voices of the stand-owner and the bulls yelling, and he made a huge mistake - he looked back. He hit a patch of ice and was brought quickly to the ground. He tried his hardest to get up, but it was no use. Two policemen already had him by the arms and were dragging him into their coach. No matter how much he struggled, he couldn't break free of their grasp.

And he sat in the back, not knowing what was going to happen to him. When the horses stopped, his heart began to race. But he told himself over and over: _No fear. No fear._ And he wasn't afraid. The door of the car opened and there stood a man. But it was not either of the officers he had encountered before. Or any of the bulls he had escaped from many times on the streets. This man introduced himself as Warden Snyder, and informed the boy that he was at a place called the Refuge._ The Refuge_. He had heard of it before - people on the streets. But he had certainly not heard good things. _No fear No Fear. _He was brought - though brought wasn't the right word, more like shoved - into the Refuge and thrown into a room that must've had twenty boys in it. It was bleak. Dirty walls, bars on the windows, and beds that didn't seem fit for animals, let alone children who were supposed "criminals." This wasn't jail...this was hell.

Every boy in the room eyed him. But he held his stance, his face straight, and walked down to the end of the aisle where he reached an empty bottom bunk. He kept a cold look on his face as he plopped himself onto the bed. He heard whispers from the other boys but didn't let it get to him. On the bed, he found a thick, brown string, probably abandoned by the bed's last inhabitant. He pulled his key out of his pocket and pulled the string though the hole, tying the ends together and hanging it around his neck. He sat there fingering the key, telling himself: _Don't cry - no tears_. Suddenly he felt a presence - a set of eyes burning into him.

"What's the key foah?" He looked towards the voice. In the bunk next to him sat a small, brown-haired boy appeared to be about a year older than himself.

"None a' yoah business."

"Ooooh, touchy." The boy stood and re-sat himself on the bed on which the key-bearing boy was sitting. "You can call me Racetrack, or Race, for shoaht." This Racetrack bore a thick Italian accent, and carried a cigar in his hand. "Whadda they call you?" He opened his mouth to answer, but he couldn't. It escaped him. He...couldn't remember his own name. It had been lost like so many other memories. It had been almost a year since he'd been spoken to or referred to as anything other than "hey, you, boy!"

"I ain't got a nickname." Racetrack seemed slightly confused, and began to show disinterest.

"Well, ah...I didn't wanna tell ya since it's yer first day heah an' all...but yoah in my spot."

"What?"

"I said...yoah in my spot. _Dis_ is my bed."

"So?"

"'So?' Yoah in my _spot_. Dis is _my _spot. _No one_ takes my spot." Geez, Racetrack was using the word 'spot' so many times at him it might as well have been his name.

"Stop saying 'spot'."

"What?"

"You've said the word 'spot' like...six times. Stop."

"Does it..._annoy _you?"

"Yes." Racetrack grinned.

"Spot. Spot. Spot. Spot. Spot. Hey! Ya know what? I'm gonna call ya Spot!"

"Please don't."

"Too late." _'Spot_' sighed and rolled his eyes. Racetrack moved back to his previous bed and rolled onto his back, staring at the upper bunk. "So _Spot_. Whaddaya in foah?" Spot fell back on his pillow.

"I jus' wanted a stinkin' tomato!" Racetrack wrinkled his eyebrows and began laughing. It was an interesting laugh. It was kind of...funny. When Racetrack laughed, it sounded somewhere between a chipmunk and a sheep. "Sheepmunk."

"What?"

"Nothing."

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**Author's Note: **Well, I hope you are liking! And please tell me how it was written and...all that junk...just...LEAVE A REVIEW PEOPLE! Chapter 2 will be up some time this week.

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	2. A Good Poker Face

**Author's Note:** I had so much story left...I couldn't _not _continue it. I wasn't about to waste all of my Race!Muse. And no worries - I am not abandoning _ATLBLaH_. I'm just really liking writing _this _story right now. Sahrry. Speaking of which, there is absolutely _no _way I'm done with this story. I have a lot of plans for it. And although there wasn't much SPRACE in the first chapter, it will come. Trust me. It would be a crime to deny anyone of SPRACE.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Newsies or its characters. I do however, own Vinnie, as I made him up. (You'll see.) I know, I know - 'kill the OCs!' right? But in Pre-strike fics (especially ones that go this far back), it's kinda necessary. And the reason his name is Vinnie? Because it's my favorite name. It was _**not**_ meant to be a play on Vinnie Delpino from Doogie Howser, who is played by Max Casella.

**Warnings: **A short chapter. Minor use of curse words. And...a twelve-year-old smoker. Smoking is bad, kids.

**SLASH?: **Only slight implications. Hey, Spot is 10.9 (don't ask) and Race is 12, give me a break! But you can watch the slash grow. It does start _here _within this chapter. I think. Maybe it was so mild no one will even notice...

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_December 8, 1893_

Although Racetrack wouldn't have been Spot's first choice as a friend, he was glad to have someone at the Refuge he could rely on - most of the time anyway. Racetrack had even been the one to get the other boys to accept him - albeit in a dishonest way.

"Ev'rybody, this here's Spot." They all just stared. One boy- tall and raven-haired, obviously one of the older ones - stood and examined Spot carefully.

"What'd _he _do?" Racetrack smirked and clapped Spot on the shoulder.

"Spot heah assaulted a bull." A few of the boys whispered to each other and Spot looked at Race with bewilderment.

"Race, whaddaya doin'?"

"Shut up." The intimidating boy stepped close and bent over so he could look Spot square in the eye.

"I don' believe it. Not fer a second." Racetrack got irritated.

"Ya think I'm lyin', Vinnie?" _Vinnie_. Spot didn't like this Vinnie. Not at all.

"I jus' don't see 'ow a little shrimp like him could take out a copper."

"I didn't say he took 'im out Vinnie. He's heah, ain't he?" Vinnie, for the first time, curved his mouth to form a slight smirk.

"I don't know, Race. Ya shoah he's tough?" The thickness of Vinnie's accent was twice that of Race's. Race smiled and shook his head.

"Hey. Would _I_ lie ta _you_?" Race's poker face was excellent. Even Spot started to believe him, he was such a good liar. He'd have to remember that. Vinnie eyed Spot once more, narrowing his eyes. Spot mimicked his stare, narrowing his eyes the slightest bit more than Vinnie had. But Spot's eyes seemed to bear an icy cold core, that had Race, and even Vinnie, taken slightly aback. Vinnie looked at Racetrack, then back at Spot and just...nodded.

"Alright. Welcome, Spot." Vinnie spit in his hand and extended it to Spot. Spot looked at the hand, then at Racetrack, who raised his brow. He smirked at Vinnie, spit in his own hand, and shook with the older boy. Vinnie took his seat and Race whispered in Spot's ear.

"Yer in." Spot smiled and Race began to walk out of the room. Spot quickly followed.

"Hey. Um...why didya do that?"

"Do what?"

"Well...lie." Race laughed and Spot again thought of a sheepmunk.

"I couldn't a' told 'em you were in 'cause ya stole a piece of fruit. Ya think Vinnie woulda accepted ya then?"

"Well...no, but-"

"Exactly." Spot really didn't see the point.

"Well...what's the big deal with this Vinnie? Why's it so important if he likes me?" Race scratched his head like he wasn't sure how to say it.

"Look. Vinnie ain't a good guy, okay? An' if he don't like you...just...it ain't pretty, okay?" Racetrack put his hands in his pockets. Spot didn't really know what to say to him, so he decided to change the subject.

"So Race...ya never told me what _you _did ta get yerself in here." Racetrack pulled a cigar from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth, not bothering to light it.

"Well, I was up at Sheepshead-" Spot's attention was peaked at the word.

"Sh-sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn?"

"Yeah, why?" Spot hung his head.

"Oh...nothin'. I just...haven't been ta Brooklyn in...a long time."

"Anyways. I was up at Sheepshead Races playin' a game a' blackjack with some business mens after one a' the races. I had kinda lost some cash and I mighta took off with some a' their money. The bulls caught me straight away." Spot nodded.

"Makes sense."

"What does?"

"That youse a gambler. You got quite the poker face." Racetrack proudly grinned.

"You much of a card player?"

"Wouldn't know. Never tried." Racetrack chin dropped open and his cigar fell to the floor.

"So yer tellin' me you've nevah played poker?" Spot shrugged. "Alright, come with me." Racetrack quickly picked up his cigar and grabbed Spot by the arm, pulling him back into the room. "Hey, Mike! Toss me a deck, will ya?" A boy sitting, spinning a revolver in his hands threw Racetrack a deck of cards, and Spot knit his eyebrows together.

"Race, how did he get a revolver in here?" Racetrack laughed and sat down on the bunk that Spot still hadn't rightfully claimed.

"That there is Mike the Greaser." And that's all he said. As if there was no needed explanation. Mike the Greaser looked small, nothing impressive about him. But he did have a glare that sent chills down Spot's spine. Spot asked no questions. Race began shuffling the deck. "Ya gonna sit down or what?" Racetrack dealt out two piles piles of cards -one for him, one for Spot. "That's yer hand."

"Okay..." Racetrack kept his cigar in his mouth and Spot could understand less than half of the words that came out of his mouth.

"Aces are high. Straight flush - five cards, one suit, in sequence. Royal flush - same thing but only with Ace, King, Queen, Jack, ten. Quads - four of a kind, one rank, fifth card acts as a kicker. Full house - three full of pair. Flush - five cards, same suit, no sequence. Straight - five cards, in sequence, different suits. Three of a kind, two pair, and one pair speak fah themselves. Anythin' else is high-card and yer screwed. Any questions?" Spot rubbed the back of his neck.

"Just one."

"What?"

"Could you repeat that?" Race exhaled and started over. Spot still couldn't understand him. He hated cigars. His father used to reek of them.

"Wait." Racetrack raised his eyebrows.

"What?" Spot leaned forward and snatched the cigar out of Racetrack mouth. "Hey!" Spot broke the cigar in half and threw it out the window.

"Okay. Continue." Racetrack was scowling. "What?" He quickly lunged at Spot, grabbing his coat and pinning him to the blanket-covered wood that was supposed to serve as a mattress.

"Ya know how much that cost me?!"

"Why should I care?" Racetrack tightened his grip on Spot's collar and glared at him. Spot averted his eyes, attempting to avoid eye contact. An utter failure. He and Race locked eyes, both of them staring intensely. Racetrack had had Spot pinned for too long. Long enough to make both of them uncomfortable. Racetrack cleared his throat and broke his gaze, loosening his grip and backing away. Spot sat up and straightened his jacket.

"So we gonna play poker or what?" Spot chuckled.

"Yer gonna havta teach me first." Racetrack shook his head and, for a third time, began explaining - slowly. And for the first time, Spot was able to understand - without that nasty cigar. Did I mention that Spot hated cigars? Because he did. A lot.

"Alright, ya think yer ready?" Spot nodded and Racetrack began shuffling the deck. It wasn't exactly an impressive feat, but Spot was amazed at how well Racetrack did it. Like the cards glided between his hands. He dealt the cards faster than Spot could process. Spot picked up his hand, wrinkling his eyebrows at the sight of it. Racetrack noticed the look on his face and confidently smirked at his own hand."How many cards ya want, Spot?" Spot scratched his head.

"Uh...two?" Racetrack tossed him two cards and Spot warily laid down two of his own. Though the look on his face did not gro anymore confident. Vinnie, who had been eavesdropping on the conversation, was amused at Spot's apparent lack of knowledge. And he thought he could use it to his advantage.

"Hey, Spot. Ya wanna play me next?" Racetrack glanced at Vinnie, then stared back at his hand.

"Don't do it Spot. Vinnie - shove off, will ya?" Vinnie chose to ignore him.

"Come on Spot. We'll play fer _real _money. Not this chump change." Spot smirked - he liked the idea of that.

"Yeah okay Vinnie." Racetrack sighed at Spot's obliviousness to his inevitable doom. Vinnie got up to retrieve his own deck of cards and his cash. Spot threw down his hand and began to follow. "Hey Race I fold."

"Yeah yeah, whatever. Wait...fold? I hadn't tol' ya about..." Racetrack lifted Spot's cards to examine just how bad his hand was. Four nines and a king. Racetrack muttered under his breath. "He...he would've beaten me." And then Race realized exactly what Spot was doing. He laughed lightly to himself, thinking about what Vinnie was going to do when _he _found out. He collected the cards and lay back on his pillow. He looked up at the spot where he had carved his name over three months prior on the day he had arrived. _Only a little while longer. Two weeks from today._ It was a pleasant thought, but he couldn't help but wonder what Spot would do without someone to help him out. He heard a loud crash and shot up.

"You...you hustled me!" _Well...I guess Vinnie realized what was goin' on. _Racetrack looked over in time to see Spot counting Vinnie's money - an almost sickeningly proud smirk on his face as he did.

"I won fair an' square, _Vinnie_. Maybe you're just having an...unlucky day." Vinnie watched as Spot continued to casually and ostentatiously count his money. And even from ten feet away, Racetrack could see his anger growing. Vinnie reached across the table and picked Spot up by the collar of his jacket. He was literally dangling in mid-air.

"No one cheats me outta my money and gets away with it. _No one_ ya heah?" Vinnie used all of his strength and shoved Spot to the ground, hitting his mouth on the side of the table. Spot cringed as he touched the wound, but showed no reaction otherwise. He didn't even get up. Vinnie used Spot's current weak state as a chance to further demean him. "Aw, is Spot scared? Is he gonna cry? Do ya need yer mommy, Spot?" The combination of the mockery and the content of Vinnie's words caused every inch of Spot's body to tense with anger. He clenched his fist as tightly as he could and began to stand. He swung and struck Vinnie square in the jaw with a force even _he _didn't know was possible. Vinnie hit the floor unconscious, and spat out a small amount of blood. The room filled with complete silence as all of the boys stood in awe. Racetrack blankly stared, looking back and forth between Vinnie and Spot - wondering how, just...how. How Spot, who was even an inch shorter than himself, could take out Vinnie Malone in one punch, And on his first day, no less. Spot wiped his mouth and re-collected his earnings. He walked back towards Racetrack, the other boys moving out of his way as he passed. He looked Racetrack directly in the eye and smiled.

"What, didya think you was the only one with a good poker face?"

"I just can't believe you did that."

"Did what?" Racetrack studied Spot, not understanding how he was so calm about the situation.

"Don't do that. Ya know what I'm talkin' about." Spot tightened his jaw and crossed his arms.

"Yeah yeah, whatever." Race scoffed.

"How are you not makin' a bigger deal outta this, Spot?"

"It _ain't_ a big deal."

"Spot it is a big deal. You took out Vinnie Malone. No one has ever done that before. An' ya did it in one punch. On yer first day in the Refuge. Ya just show up outta nowhere... It just...it's a big deal, Spot." Spot completely ignored him. "Ya know, you can get in trouble fer fightin' heah. You wanna get yer sentence extended?" He sighed.

"No."

"Then you'd better hope no one rats on you."

"I'll soak 'em if they do." Racetrack laughed. Spot smiled. He'd grown accustomed to smiling every time Race laughed.

"I wouldn't doubt it. Neither will anyone else after what they saw just now."

"Well I don't regret doin' it. Vinnie deserved what he got."

"I agree with ya Spot, but I still think yer takin' it a little too lightly." Spot rolled his eyes and laid his head against the frame of the bunk. There was a noise that sounded like a creak in the floorboards and everyone of the boys shot to their beds. Spot still had no bed, so he quickly dove onto the bed he had previously occupied - much to Racetrack's dismay. And he responded with a loud whisper.

"What are ya doin', Spot?!"

"I think Warden Snyder's comin'."

"No shit. But we've been over this already, this is _my _bed!"

"But I don't have a bed a' my own!" Racetrack shushed Spot and covered his mouth with his own hand as Warden Snyder entered the room.He slowly walked the length of the room, occasionally hitting his cane against the hard wood floor. Race and Spot lay face-to-face, trying desperately not to make a noise or move. When the lights were flipped off and they heard the footsteps descend the stairwell out side the door, Race pulled his hand away and the both of them sighed in relief.

"Alright, now get off." Spot groaned.

"But Race, I ain't got a place ta sleep."

"That ain't my problem." Racetrack turned so that his back was facing Spot, who suddenly became very interested in the hairs on the back of Race's neck. He lay there for a while in silence, just long enough for him to match Racetrack's breathing pattern.

"Hey Race?"

"What?"

"How old are you?"

"You sure ask a lotta questions, Spot." When he didn't receive an answer, Spot thought he'd give his own.

"Well, I'm ten. But my birthday's two weeks from today." Race's heart sunk just the slightest bit.

"Two weeks exactly?"

"Yepp. Two weeks exactly." Spot spoke very proudly, but Racetrack wasn't looking at it that way. '_Great_,' he thought. '_Spot makes a friend and he leaves 'im on his birthday. Some friend.' _He suddenly felt horrible. Spot sighed dispiritedly at Race's lack of communication. He sat up and Race grabbed him by the wrist.

"Spot...you can stay." Spot smiled and laid back down on the bed, this time with his back to Race's. He sighed - this time out of contentment. It surprised him how, on a plank of wood, he felt more comfortable now than he had in a year. Race was also lost in his own thoughts. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad letting Spot know things about him.

"Hey Spot?"

"Huh?"

"I'm twelve." Spot smiled to himself and further buried himself in the blanket.

"'Night, Race."


End file.
